


Haven: Vignettes

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Series: Hawk of the Marches [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Haven (Dragon Age), Hinterlands (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes capturing the early experiences of Mira Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste, in the first few weeks of the Inquisition. </p><p>Miraphora Antoinette Trevelyan--sometimes called Mira, sometimes called Tawny, once known as the Hawk of the Marches. A rogue, a mercenary, sometimes little more than a bandit, and the estranged heir of House Trevelyan. She walked into the Temple of Sacred Ashes as a mercenary hired on to the Trevelyan contingent, in pursuit of her own agenda, and emerged from the Fade an unlikely hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# Advisors

“People die all the time.”

Mira twitches with guilt as soon as the words leave her mouth, hearing a scoffing noise in the silence at her side where Elyse used to stand. The sound she hears when even she knows she’s been inexcusably cruel, the sound reminding her that the loss she has suffered is no excuse to punish relative strangers by adding insult to the injury of grief. The phantom memory brings its own twinge, and Mira doesn’t delude herself that she has succeeded in masking it from the hooded Spymaster.

Leliana’s gaze fixes on the peak of the Chantry-–or on the Maker-empty sky to the west, Mira can’t be certain.

When she speaks to the Seeker, she tries to take a more diplomatic tack, but the spectre of her casual agnosticism and the woman’s bristling uncertainty prevent any real rapport. Mira will leave in the morning with this woman by her side, her sword and her shield pledged to Mira’s defense.

It’s been  _at least_  an hour since her heart has ached with the loss of absent friends and comrades, the upheaval of the last se’ennight stirring embers of a fire she had believed long extinguished. 

She wagers recklessly with herself that she’ll make it two hours next time.

She speaks to her Commander--is he her Commander or she his Herald? She has led before, she has commanded, the weight of her cast-off title lingers in the back of her mind--she still isn’t certain where the balance of power lies in this “Inquisition” of theirs.

It’s maybe a touch of madness that drives her to respond to the Commander’s drawled questions with insouciant wit. She has never had time for blond men.

It’s  _more_  than a touch of madness that drives her to that broad smirk, teasing him for pedantry. The echo of Elyse’s voice rings in her mind saucily / _Oh I do like the way he says “Forgive me”_ /.

So does Mira.

 

# Prideful Lion

She hates herself a little for enjoying his arid humor and snark. It’s barely been more than a year since the Rivain Circle was Annulled. That pain is still fresh.

But she hates extremists and hates bullies and she hates neglectful leaders--

And, Void take her, he is none of those things.

/  _Prideful like a lion, look at him roar_  /

She presses the aching palm of her Marked hand against the bump of the pendant hanging below the neck of her jerkin and scowls, distrusting the echo of memory. –  _I’m sure he was very fierce while he murdered your sisters_  –

/  _No sisters of mine, Tawny dearest, he was at Kinloch and Kirkwall and yet walks free, alive and exalted, if you can call this shitstorm a promotion. You know what that means_  /

That thought is so clear and cogent that Mira shakes her head in disgust, hawkish golden eyes squinting. “I don’t know which to fear more, the perfect madness of your memory or this Void-be-damned Mark,” she mutters to herself, to a ghost, to a memory.

She turns on her heel, abandoning the Commander to the Chancellor’s strident and untender mercies. Even Cassandra’s fierce scowl seems preferable presently.

 

# Succor

Mira’s still not comfortable with the Herald of Andraste nonsense. Her shoulders flex with annoyance and her lips twist at the title--it’s partly why the Commander’s wry inquiry after her feelings on the matter soften her toward him--but this Mother Giselle--

–  _maman, où es tu?_  – 

\--this Mother Giselle, with her kind, peaceful eyes and serenity--

–  _waking, clammy and with sticky rounded cheeks from a nightmare, grasping for the golden warmth of her mother’s comfort and finding only darkness, cold and empty, again, even years later when she was old enough to know better, old enough that her careful wariness of the darkness beneath the bed, the candle burning through the night outside her bed curtains, were irrational and foolish_  – 

“--hope.”

Mira’s golden eyes flare in the candlelight of the Chantry as she forces herself to attend upon the woman’s measured Orlesian voice. “I will do what I can to help.”

Refugees, starving and cold. Wounded, the elderly, and infirm. Succor. Support. Protect. Defend.

This, at least, she can do without qualm. This she has always done.


	2. My Lover's Phylactery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discovery of a dead Templar and a glowing phylactery rouse painful memories for Mira.

When they find the dead Templar beside the shrine west of Dwarfson’s Pass, Mira bows her head, her heart aching. Cassandra’s sharp eyes are on her--and on the spidery silver trail of moisture tracing down the plane of her cheek--when Mira rises, the still-glowing phylactery clutched tight in her hand. The memory of Elyse’s voice is silent with reproach in her mind. 

Sometimes the memory of their banter and close friendship--sisterhood--is oppressed beneath a thick shellac of guilt and regret.

“If you like, Herald, we might trace the mage’s location and--”

Mira tightens her fist around the phylactery, holding it at the small of her back, and takes a jerky step away from the Seeker’s outstretched hand. “No!” 

It comes out harsh, her voice roughened and slightly guttural. Now they are all staring at her in consternation, her companions.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, centering herself with the same energy that guides her arrow. When she meets the Seeker’s eyes, she has mastered her expression. “Apologies, Seeker, but no. I will not run a mage to ground like a fennec. I--I will find a safe place for this, until--”

Varric gives her a smile and claps her back familiarly. “Who knows, maybe we’ll run into her out here in the Hinterlands. I’m sure she’d appreciate word of her companion.”

“I--yes. Thank you, Varric. Let’s move out.”

She waits until they have begun trekking back down the hill, their backs safely to her, to slip a hand into the neck of her jerkin, fishing out a sweat-darkened leather thong. To this she secures the glowing phial, and it hangs with a warm light beside a darkened cloisonné pendant.

–  _I will find you, and Maker help me, I will give you shelter._  –

Mira begins to feel warmth grow against her breastbone as they approach the Crossroads. It is easy to dismiss the feeling as relief that she is nearer the end of this foray into the Hinterlands. The promise of a warm bath when she reaches Haven was all that kept her going through the hills after the unfortunate encounter with a rage demon in Dwarfson’s Pass.

As she makes her way around the small camp, bringing blankets, food, medicines, succor for those in need, she thinks it is gratitude that she has been able to solve at least one problem in the legion facing her. She is not eager to journey to Val Royeaux, to argue the cause of reason and to beg, borrow, or steal support from the forces who have abandoned their charge to defend and protect, in order to wage a war over religion and power.

When she finds herself hesitantly climbing a worn path to the arch of a grotto, she realizes the warmth is none of these things. She reaches up to grasp at the bumps of the phylacteries tucked into her jerkin, cheeks flushing with unease.

She struggles to make her face a smooth mask so that Cassandra has nowhere to latch her suspicious glances and slows as she crests the hill and sees the woman within the grotto, quarter-profile limned in candlelight.

The woman turns before Mira can speak, an arch look on her fine features. There are deep lines at the corners of her mouth.

“I have heard of you, Herald of Andraste.”

The women face each other, neither giving much away with their expressions. Mira questions her, learning of her experience in the Hinterlands. 

At last there is a natural lull, and she knows she must return her charge. “Ellandra…”

There is no help for it, her companions are close at her sides and they will see, but she cannot leave this undone. She pulls the cord up, removing the glowing phylactery, deeply uncomfortable with the looks that both Solas and Cassandra direct at the cloisonné pendant and its darkened and cracked phial.

Mira extends her hand, the phylactery gently cradled in her palm. “My lady, we found a slain Templar, I am sorry. I--”

Mira swallows against the tightening of her throat at the keen expression of grief that washes like a grey wave across the mage’s face. “I have seen his charge carried out, and give this unto your care. He did not betray you.”

The woman’s hand trembles as she reaches out, and Mira startles at her cool handclasp, the warm glow secured between their palms. Ellandra’s eyes meet hers, grey to gold, then seek with sudden understanding the pendant around her neck.

“…Herald.” The word is spoken with recognition and respect this time, and Mira can almost for a moment bear to hear it. “You have my thanks.”

Solas shifts at her side, and Mira resents their eagerness and single-minded purpose. The moment of grief shared with a stranger is fragile, and it pops like a soap bubble. But if she be Herald in fact, there are more pressing issues.

“I am glad, my lady mage. But…I would also invite your help. The Inquisition--”

The grey eyes crackle a bit, and a mask of indifference comes back down. “No. I have said I will not fight. I thank you for returning this to me and telling me of Mattrin’s death. Goodbye.”

Necessity is a demon that dogs her heels every step of the way through this Fade-cursed ordeal. Mira compresses her lips and steps back, tucking her pendant back into her collar and nodding curtly.

“Goodbye, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr and twitter @lustfulpasiphae


	3. Walls of Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing the rift at the gates of Redcliffe makes her retch.

Closing the rift at the gates of Redcliffe makes her retch.

There’s a distortion to the air that sends her arrows off course, and the malevolent bubbling green glow on the ground seems thicker there and difficult to avoid. Repeatedly she flickers, gagging, into the smoke of her vanishing powders, finds a new bit of clear ground, and sinks gracelessly to one knee to steady herself--each deep draw takes more strength than the last, and the green gash on her palm crackles and pulses with the rift above them.

Sera is everywhere, leaping around and somersaulting from rock to rock, volleys of arrows ripping through the air. Her eldritch and unhinged cackles remind Mira bittersweetly of Elyse but contribute to the discomfiting warp of time and space and thereby to her nausea.

She chokes again, spitting to the side as the rift finally settles into some semblance of manageability, and staggers back to her knees, Marked hand outstretched and crackling.

Solas is suddenly behind her, a long-fingered impersonal hand resting with unexpected tenderness on her right shoulder, a barrier settling around her like a blanket. Her stomach halts its revolt.

With a deafening clap, the rift sucks into itself and seals shut, tar-thick debris and glowing green effluvium spattering the roadbed.

In the sudden silence, Mira hears the patter of gore as Cassandra flicks her blade and the sensuous  _shish_  of steel returned to the sheath; the steady breathing and barely-audible hum of consternation from Solas; the fleet footfalls and abrupt skid as Sera returns to her side, arrows rattling in her quiver.

Mira coughs one last time to clear the panicky tightness of her chest and shakes her dripping chestnut hair back from her eyes. 

“What…in the Maker’s name…was  _that_?!”  

Solas’ hand retreats from her shoulder.

Cassandra steps forward and helps her to her feet, graceful and steady and uncomplaining. Mira spares her a look of gratitude; they have been through this rift-riddled Hinterlands from one end to the other, and the Seeker has slowly begun to warm to her, which is a greater gift than the faultless care that she takes in Mira’s defense. Mira has missed companions, camaraderie, the security of knowing that a shield and sword are wielded in the name of their mutual cause. She’s unaccountably glad that she has chosen to keep Cassandra by her side, despite the obvious and unexpected devotion of the Warden Blackwall’s pledge to her cause.

“Time appeared to operate in a strange way here.” Solas, dryly obvious and unhelpful.

“We should speak to Enchanter Fiona.” The Nevarran accent is such a conflicting combination of drawling hauteur and clipped consonants, but Mira enjoys the sound of it, and Cassandra’s easy exasperation and suspicious nature.

When they pass the gate, however, Leliana’s scout has nothing good to report. Their small contingent arrived without remark, and was not expected--and while the agents have had time, they have not been able to secure news of First Enchanter Fiona. The man directs them to an inn with a heartfelt and hopeful “Maker go with you, Herald” and melts back into the crowd.

Mira doesn’t like surprises, and she doesn’t like the feel of the air here despite the tang of the sea that at any other time would have invigorated her. She is uncomfortably reminded of her arch scoffing over the war table, and avoids Cassandra’s eyes.  _“Do you really think it’s a trap?”_

Mira scans the city before them, noting the persistent ruin of the keep to the west and the ragged appearance of its people. Before she can speak, Sera breaks the surly silence with a ribald belch and a chittering laugh, dancing down the road before them and shooting Solas a taunting gesture and her words over her shoulder.

“Worst they can do is kill us, innit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr and twitter @lustfulpasiphae


	4. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira has nothing against the mystical and magical and she has been touched by Death so many times in her life that her fingertips gently cradle the skull’s temples–-but the eerie blue glow of the ocularum, so like the veilfire Solas has failed to adequately explain, and the sibilant whispers of the shards it reveals, make her skin pebble and her lizard brain pulse a heartbeat rhythm to flee.

Each time Mira has laid hands on an ocularum a deep shudder kinked up her spine and her hind teeth ground together at the raw grating of bone on stone.

She has nothing against the mystical and magical and she has been touched by Death so many times in her life that her fingertips gently cradle each skull’s temples--but the eerie blue glow, so like the veilfire Solas has failed to adequately explain, and the sibilant whispers of the shards it reveals, make her skin pebble and her lizard brain pulse a heartbeat rhythm to flee.

* * *

A buzzing builds in her head as her feet lead her to the locked door of a ramshackle hut by the wharf of Redcliffe. The sibilant whisper of the shards is in the air, but unlooked-for, here. She is filled with foreboding as she kneels to pick the lock. Cassandra looks askance at her sheet-white face and then smoothly steps in to form a loose circle of conversation with Solas and Sera, shielding her actions from the view of passersby.

The buzz settles into her teeth, and the tumblers click, settling and releasing. Mira stands as though under a heavy burden, her eyes strained, and pushes into the hut. 

It smells like death.

Not the gory charnel house scent of the battlefield or triage, but…dusty, chill, sinister--a crypt with secrets. The scent has too much substance for a hut by the sea.

Her eyes are drawn to the dim corner, where stone plinths lie pell-mell on the dirt, and above--

Her throat constricts. Faintly glowing blue eye sockets stare back at her from crude shelving secured to the wall. A line of skulls like those from the ocularum.

“Solas,” she croaks tightly.

The elf is already at the sideboard, long fingers shuffling delicately through the pages of a large, ornate tome affixed with a bronze skull medallion. 

“Ah.” The sound is a breath filled with strangely emotive regret. He continues in an even tone. “The Tranquil. I had wondered--”

The starburst symbol etched into the foreheads of the Tranquil flashes into her mind as she stares hard, golden eyes darkening, at the fallen plinths. “I have been a blind fool.”

She walks woodenly to the row of skulls, hand drifting up, callused fingertips resting with profound tenderness against the temple of a recent specimen--cleaner than the rest, untinted by the mossy patina of age or weather. “ _Je suis désolé_ ,” she whispers, barely a breath.

Behind her, Solas and Cassandra discuss the implications, Solas speculating that the Tevinter mages are using the ocularum to search for the shards they have found littered around the Hinterlands and Storm Coast. Mira’s eyes are still caught in the veilfire glow of the empty sockets. In her mind she feels a tender warmth and the gaze of snapping dark eyes, softened with compassion.

/  _They are at least reunited with the Fade, Tawny. Your sadness helps them not one bit. You know what you will do._  /

She almost--almost--feels the phantom brush of bow-shaped lips against her brow. 

“Herald.”

Mira takes a shuddering breath, the phantoms--real and imagined--dissipating. She steps back, feels a glancing touch to the small of her back--small, clever fingers giving a furtive reassuring caress, and smiles for Sera’s benefit. 

“Yes. We have work to do. To the Chantry, then, and Maker take these blighted bastards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Je suis désolé – I am sorry.
> 
> Find me on tumblr and twitter @lustfulpasiphae.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Maman, où es tu? – Mama, where are you?
> 
> I'm reorganizing and reposting this series to make a little more sense. It's not actually written as a linear chapter fic, but more of a series of vignettes focused around periods of plot (like the later Dark Heart arc). Many thanks to old and new readers for bearing with me.
> 
> Mira's growth as a character has been very organic, and she reveals more about herself later. If you ever have questions about what's going on, feel free to drop me a comment or come find me on tumblr or twitter @lustfulpasiphae.


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